


My Hero

by Lochinvar



Series: Hobo and Karma [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batman - Freeform, Blessings, Brotherly Affection, Brothers, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Curses, Domestic Fluff, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Fixing the Canon, Fluff, Gen, Hunter Training, Hunters & Hunting, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Fic, Lucid Dreaming, Magic Revealed, Nightmares, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Protection Magic, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sigils, Slice of Life, Spells & Enchantments, Supernatural Procedural, Texas Rangers, Training, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, king arthur - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: Sam and Dean spend a week with Bobby and Pastor Jim, learning to become better Hunters.





	My Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/gifts).



> Part of the Hobo and Karma series. Foreshadows both brothers' ongoing battles with things that show up in nightmares.
> 
> Dedicated to JhanaMay, who would have made an awesome mentor and teacher for the brothers and would have helped them with their nightmares: past, present, and future.
> 
> [Light edit: December 2, 2017]

Blue Earth, Minnesota - 1995

The brothers learned about battling nightmares during a rare vacation week in early winter, when Bobby drove the brothers the 140 miles from Sioux Falls, South Dakota to Blue Earth, Minnesota, home of Pastor Jim.

Sam was 12; Dean was 16.

John had dropped the boys at Bobby’s and drove away as soon as the two brothers had dragged their duffel bags out of the back seat and closed the Impala’s doors. They were inches away from the car as they turned towards the house, and their father floored Baby’s gas pedal and was gone.

Sammy whimpered.

“Dad?”  
  
Bobby was watching from the porch, looking grumpy, as usual, and maybe a little sad.

“Road trip, boys,” he said.

The old truck was packed. The derelict house was locked up, with alarms set and fresh wards painted around the doors and windows. The boys threw their bags in the back and climbed into the front seat next to Bobby. And they headed out.

Dean took the cramped center spot so that Sammy could nap. The younger boy scrunched up against the door at first, his face pressed against the window, but, as usual, ended up nestled under Dean’s arm, burrowing into the warmth of his wool winter jacket. Never found out until years later that John's quick getaway was for one of his visits to his other family, the one he protected from finding out about his real job. Visiting the son who never had to learn how to salt and burn.

Guilt drove his abrupt departure.

So, Pastor Jim and Bobby planned a weeklong holiday for their favorite boys. Benign revenge against their friend John, who they both sort of hated at the moment.

Bobby cooked, baked, and even grilled outside, despite the typical Minnesota deep freeze, and discussed lore with Sam while Dean listened and devoured prehistoric back issues of _Popular Mechanics_ and _Guns_ & _Ammo._

When the good pastor was able to take time away from his parishioners, he would get into his Concordia College sweats and teach both boys moves that the Marines never heard of.

Carefully, carefully, he would pull, with appropriate protections, artifacts from a collection that rivaled that of the Vatican’s, the difference being that the Holy Fathers appropriately treated the mysteries of their holdings as from an untouchable archive, while Pastor Jim’s stockpile was more like a hardware store, which was put to practical use in the war against Evil.

 _Safety First_ was the theme of every lesson, whether it involved holy relics, crossbows, or lighting and banking a cooking fire in the pastor’s awesome outdoor stone grill, built by his congregation as a present celebrating his 20 th anniversary with their church.

One night the minister and Sammy competed in a spelling bee–in Greek and Latin. Bobby picked the words, and Dean cheered them both on. For the first time, Sam won, and Dean couldn't have been prouder of his boy. The grown-ups were beaming, and Bobby baked a dinner composed solely of oversized portions of spiced apple cobblers a la mode.

The brothers turned churning the ice cream into a contest. Of course.

\-----

It was after dinner a couple of days later, and the four Hunters were hanging out in front of the indoor fireplace in the pastor’s private quarters. The men claimed the easy chairs and enjoyed decent sipping bourbon, another gift from the congregation, while the boys sprawled on the couch, pushing into each other’s personal space like puppies.

Dinner had been some kind of cheese, ham, and potato casserole with sides of buttered corn and sauced onions. Even Dean would eat vegetables done up with cream and butter, and well-peppered. They were growing boys, so they were double-fisting thick, homemade, oatmeal raisin cookies and washing them down with mugs of fresh milk from a local dairy, owned by a family of Pastor Jim’s parishioners.

They also were staging some kind of complicated battle, which involved using the cookies as both weapons and prizes. The rules were obscure, but it was obvious that Dean kept winning until he let Sammy be the victor. Bobby barked at them to clean up the mess they were making and sent them to the kitchen to get paper towels, a broom, and dustpan, but while both of them were out of the room, the men smiled at each other.

“Nice to see them laughing,” said Pastor Jim.

They returned, quickly cleaned up the spilt milk and cookies crumbs, and returned to the kitchen with the trash. And to refill their mugs and snatch just one more cookie, which they split.

When they came back, they snuggled into the couch, and Dean pulled a quilt over Sammy while the younger boy grabbed a pillow, tucked it on Dean’s lap, and laying his head down, stretched out full length.

They all watched the fire for a few minutes, and then Bobby spoke up, without preamble.

“Nightmares,” he said.

Dean and Sam stared at their mentor.

“I get them. All hunters get them. Anyone who claims contrary is a liar. Hunters, we know too much; we’ve seen too much. But there ain’t one kind. Good to know what you’re dealing with.”

It was obvious that this was a speech that Bobby had prepared, probably after conferring with Pastor Jim.

“Three kinds of nightmares,” he said.

\-----

“First kind is the natural kind, same as civilians get.  
  
“Everyday nightmares, well, that’s just your mind figuring out things. Connecting the dots. Just weird and uncomfortable.

“There are the ones that repeat, like watching the same old movie. You know what is going to happen next. Could be unfinished business. If they're just weird, don’t mind them.

“Then there are the ones that are just a little bit scarier. Maybe have a ghost or a monster in them. Maybe something bad happens, like your Pa dies.

“Here’s the thing. You can learn to turn them around. It called ‘Lucid Dreaming’.  
  
“Takes four things."

He cleared his throat and took another sip.

“First, you need a weapon to bring with you into the dream. Something you would take to a fight. What would you choose?”

He directed the question at both boys.

Dean spoke first.

“I’d wanted a scattergun, loaded with salt and silver and iron,” he said.

“Good choice,” said Bobby, and Dean beamed.

Praise was hard won from the old grouch. He loved both boys dearly but hesitated to show it. Told himself he wasn’t going to compete with their father for their affections, but the real reason was that he was terrified that his loving them too much would jinx the relationships, call a curse down on them all, and he would lose them. Figured it would hurt as much as the ugly death of his possessed wife Karen. Or more.

“And Sam, what about you?” asked Pastor Jim. He never called him Sammy, which the younger boy appreciated.

“I want a knife,” he said. “A big Bowie. With a silver edge you can split hairs on. To hold. And smaller knives, to throw.”

Even Dean appreciated his choices. Sam loved blades. Was already deadly in target practice.

“So, think about your weapons before you go to sleep. Imagine what they look like, what they feel like. When the dream starts, remember them, put them in your hand. Anything in the dream that comes from your imagination is part of you. You can make it happen.”

“Second,” continued Pastor Jim, “You need a sigil or a ward. Maybe an image to wear on a t-shirt. Or a ring or bracelet.”

Dean smiled and pulled at the creature that hung from the cord around his neck.

“Sammy already gave me this. From Bobby,” he said. He looked down at his brother, whose head was nestled in the pillow on his lap. As was their custom, Dean had been running his fingers through his brother’s hair.

“No reason you both can’t ‘chant it up and wear it in your dreams,” said Bobby.

The brothers grinned at each other, and Sammy reached up to touch the creature’s horns.

“Third, you need a defense spell. Maybe holy words or a prayer. Something to protect you passively, and, if necessary, actively attack any beings in the dream. Another weapon.”

“Christo,” the boys shouted in unison.

“Good,” smiled Pastor Jim. “We'll teach you a few more in different languages, from different cultures. Banishing spells, blessings, prayers of gratitude."

“Finally,” said Bobby, “You also will need a team. Folks you can call upon to enter your dream. Help you, and stand besides you. Can be anyone, living or dead, real or made up. People and creatures you trust.”

Silence, while the brothers thought.

“Batman?” asked Dean. The two men nodded and tried not to smile. Dean looked so serious.

“Pretty much any comic book or movie hero you want. The more the better. Practice seeing and feeling them at your side when you are awake, just like you did when you were younger and played with toys and imaginary friends.”

Everyone ignored the fact that Dean, when he thought no one was listening, still talked to the toy soldier stuck in the Impala’s ashtray. 

Sammy was quiet.

“King Arthur,” he said. “And the Knights of the Round Table. And, can I have a dog with me, too?”

“Of course,” said the good pastor. “Anyone or anything you want.

“So who do you guys bring to a nightmare?” asked Dean.  
  
“Texas Rangers,” said Bobby.

“One nightmare, one Ranger,” he added, referencing a famous story where one Ranger showed up to quell a threatened riot during a contentious Texas election.

[Author’s note: True story. Look it up.]

“The Lion from Narnia,” said Pastor Jim. “And my favorite saints. St. Joan was a great Hunter. Like her on my side when the Things That Go Bump In The Night show up.”

“What about the other sorts of nightmares?” asked Sammy.

Something in the way he asked verified the adults’ suspicions that he had some experience with the grimmer types of dreams. Dean had been asking vague questions about a troubled friend, and in part, Bobby and Pastor Jim had planned the trip and this conversation to empower both boys.

Dean’s hand rested on his brother’s shoulder.  
  
“Well,” said Bobby. Another sip. Reached over and pour a few more fingers from the half-filled bourbon bottle.

“The second kind of nightmares, think of them as diseases, like catching the flu, or getting poisoned, like you did with that pork burrito you ate in Montana last year.

“Maybe you have a dance with a monster that leaves sort of a residue on your soul. Souls have immune systems, like your bodies do, and Hunters tend to have really good immune systems. Have to, or they don’t last very long in the business.”

Dean and Sammy both remembered sad stories they had overheard about suicides in the Hunter community and nodded.

“Might be because of a hunt gone bad. Or some of its ichor gets on you. Or something about the hunt bothers you, gets personal. Happens to everyone, no matter how experienced or strong you are. A case reminds you of someone you cared about or some failure from your past. So the residual taint could be physical or spiritual.

“And although Winchesters tend to have iron-plated natural protection from hoo-doos, it ain’t enough sometimes.”

Pastor Jim chimed in. Later, the boys wondered if the two old friends had rehearsed what they were going to say. How they were to deliver scary news.

“So, you prepare. Maybe you don’t want to share your ordinary nightmares with your father, or me, or Bobby, or Rufus. We get it. But, if it is something troubling you, something worse, we want to hear about it.

“And if you have any doubts, tell us. Sam, you tell your brother. Hell, confide in each other, so you can track how bad it is, how often it happens, descriptions of the creatures, any patterns, just like when you're researching a case, and tell an adult Hunter as soon as you can. Your daddy, or anyone around.

“We can help you diagnose the trouble. Maybe conduct a formal cleansing ritual. Will get rid of 95% of the problem, or reduce the impact to something you can deal with yourself.

“Meanwhile, if you can’t reach someone to help, you know the protection herbs, like lavender. Ginger. Basil. Mint. Hell, you can buy them at a grocery store. Make some tea.”

Dean made a face.

Or, use a sage smudge, but don’t set off the fire alarm in your motel room, if you can help it. Hard to explain to the desk clerk. Or the local fire chief.”

Meaning Bobby was speaking from personal experience. Sounded like something Rufus would do.

“A warm bath with Epsom salts, with some Dead Sea salt thrown in, can draw out most Supernatural poisons.

“And, bedside prayer before you go to sleep? Always a good idea, and maybe tuck under your pillow one of those pretty iron and silver sigils you hang in windows on the road. Something you should be doing anyhow. Every night, whether or not you are in the middle of a hunt.”

The boys were soaking it up.

Bobby and Pastor Jim looked at each other.

Bobby cleared his throat and took a big gulp of the sipping bourbon without tasting it.

“And there is the third kind of nightmare. The really really bad kind.

“We are talking possession, boys. Something comes at you and enters your dreams. Something strong enough to get past the sigils and wards. When you get old enough for an anti-possession tattoo, even it won’t protect you against the worst kind of ethereal entities. Ones from other dimensions. Ones that might have a direct line to Hell.

“You will know the difference. That happens, you tell your father if he is around, and before you call anyone else, you call Missouri. The usual fixes ain’t going to help much. We will need to identify the culprit, probably recruit a minyan of Hunters and Adepts. Hold a full exorcism. There are specialists, called Guardians. Maybe you get to meet one some day. It’s an honor, but…not under the best of circumstances, for sure.

“Except…there is a trick about possession. Something most civilians don’t know, and even Hunters forget.

“When you are possessed by something Supernatural, even the Devil himself, God has gifted humans with the ability to resist and expel the intruder. Sort of a bonus along with Free Will. It takes strength of character and focus to do it. Sort of like those stories when some bitsy lady lifts a car off her kid or a dying man turns a corner and wakes up healed.

“Can’t guarantee it. But…if something happens to you, keep fighting. Even if it feels hopeless. And don’t think you have to go it alone.

At the time Bobby, Dean, and Pastor Jim thought Sammy’s pale face was from fear of the unknown. Had no idea how bad it was, that the young Hunter already knew exactly what they were talking about. The stuff he never told anyone, not even Dean.

\-----

Sammy lied when he mentioned King Arthur, although the semi-mythic Welsh Hunter was his favorite character from the Lore. The next time he had a nightmare, fighting off a pack of ugly demonic wargs, standing by his side was a grown-up Dean, in silver armor, wielding Excalibur. Dean was grinning. Fearless.

He and Sammy destroyed the pack, and the dream flowed into something nice. The two of them, standing on a mountaintop. Watching eagles float in the breeze.

After that, Dean was his go-to when Sam needed dream mojo. Until he left for Stanford, and the nightmares became more than what his loyal spirit brother could handle.

Of course, Dean never told anyone that when he said Batman, he really meant Sammy, coming to rescue him with those wicked throwing knives and a silver Bowie.

\-----

Fifteen years later, the memory of that talk helped save the world from the Apocalypse.

**Author's Note:**

> Own nothing; rely on the kindness of strangers.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated - thank you.
> 
> Why isn't learning about lucid dreaming techniques a part of every Hunter's education?????


End file.
